Page 27 of The Mafia King's Baby

She studies my face with the gentle persistence of someone who cares enough to push past polite deflection. “If you need anything at all, you know where to find me. Sometimes, it helps to talk through whatever’s keeping you awake.”

“Thank you. I’ll be fine, really.” I squeeze her hand briefly before heading for the door. “Get some rest, and call if you need help with Sariah tomorrow.” The walk home takes less than five minutes, but by the time I reach my front door, the anxiety I’ve been suppressing all day crashes over me like a delayed wave. Agent Lang’s visit this morning felt wrong in ways I can’t articulate, professional courtesy masking something harder and more threatening that made even Sariah react with unusual aggression.

My house feels too quiet when I enter, empty in a way that has nothing to do with the absence of guests and everything to do with the lingering fear that I’m being watched or targeted for reasons I don’t understand. I place the cookies on the kitchen counter and try to focus on normal evening routines, but concentration proves impossible when every small sound makes me look toward the windows.

I make myself a light dinner and attempt to review job applications, scrolling through listings for marketing positions that might utilize my experience without requiring relocation to expensive cities I can’t afford, though my heart isn’t in marketing anymore. I have a brief daydream of owning a charming little B&B somewhere, but the fantasy dissolves when Aleks is suddenly included, returning from fixing a leaking faucet and wanting a kiss…

I blink that away and end up checking locks repeatedly, closing curtains earlier than usual, and jumping at sounds that would normally pass unnoticed. Agent Lang’s promise to return with more questions echoes in my memory, carrying inferences beyond professional duty into something more personal and threatening.

By nine o’clock, I’ve given up any pretense of productivity and settled into the living room with a cup of tea and another book I won’t actually read. The house feels like a fortress under siege, with windows becoming potential entry points rather than sources of natural light, and doors transforming from conveniences into barriers that might or might not provide adequate protection.

At nine-thirty, aggressive knocking on my front door shatters what little peace I’ve managed to maintain. It’s not the polite rap of someone making a social call or delivering a package, and certainly not a late-arrival, since I have no booking tonight, but sharp, demanding strikes that announce official business conducted with growing impatience.

I approach the door cautiously, checking the peephole to confirm what I already suspect. Agent Marcus Lang stands on my porch, but something about his appearance has changed dramatically since this morning. His suit looks rumpled anddisheveled, his hair slightly mussed, and most importantly, the badge he displayed earlier is nowhere to be seen.

“Ms. Bourn, I need to speak with you. Open the door.” His tone carries none of the professional courtesy from our earlier encounter, replaced by something flatter and more commanding. This isn’t a request disguised as official procedure. It’s a demand backed by authority he expects me to recognize without question. My gaze drops immediately to his gun in its holster, prominently displayed by the way his jacket is unbuttoned.

Fear makes my mouth dry, and I’m raspy when I say, “It’s late, Agent Lang. If you have official business, you can contact me through proper channels during business hours.”

“This is official business, and it can’t wait. Open the door now.”

I keep the chain lock engaged while turning the deadbolt, creating just enough space to speak with him directly while maintaining a barrier between us. What I see through the gap makes my stomach clench with fear that has nothing to do with federal credentials or legitimate investigation.

His eyes are different now, harder and more focused, like someone who’s decided that polite approaches have failed and more direct methods are required. He’s standing closer to the door than professional courtesy would dictate, positioned to push inside the moment I provide enough space for entry, and his hand is on his pistol.

“I told you this morning that I don’t recognize the man in your photograph. I have nothing else to add to that statement.”

“You’re lying.” The accusation comes out sharp and certain, without the diplomatic phrasing that legitimate law enforcementuses when questioning civilian witnesses. “Yefrem Kulikov stayed in your house a week ago under the alias Aleks Sokolov. I need to search the premises.”

The name makes me blink, confirming the man I knew as Aleks was indeed someone else entirely. More frightening than the revelation of his deception is the certainty in Lang’s voice, and the way he states facts about my guest as if he has detailed surveillance records rather than circumstantial evidence.

I square my shoulders. “I don’t know anyone named Yefrem Kulikov, and I already told you I don’t recognize your photograph. If you think someone left something in my house, you’ll need a search warrant to look for it.”

“I don’t need a warrant.” Lang’s hand moves to the door frame, fingers gripping the wood with obvious frustration. “He’s a Russian crime boss, Ms. Bourn. He uses people like you to hide evidence from federal investigations, and then he eliminates them when they become inconvenient witnesses.”

The words should terrify me more than they do, but something about his delivery feels rehearsed rather than genuine, like he’s telling me what he thinks will motivate cooperation rather than sharing actual intelligence about ongoing criminal activities.

“If that’s true, then you definitely need proper warrants and backup officers before conducting any search. I’m not comfortable with this conversation, and I’m going to close the door now.” I start to push it closed.

“Don’t.” His voice drops to something lower and more menacing, authority replaced by personal threat. “You’re going to let me inside, and you’re going to show me exactly where Kulikov was. He might have left critical evidence in your house,thinking this was an innocuous place to stash it. If you don’t, this becomes much more difficult for both of us.”

I start to close the door, but Lang’s foot shoots forward to block it, and he presses his shoulder against the frame with enough force to make the chain lock strain against its mounting. The professional facade disappears completely.

I let out a startled yelp, temporarily letting go of the door. “Get away from my door, or I’m calling the police.”

“Call them. Tell them a federal agent is conducting a legitimate search for evidence in a criminal investigation.” He pushes harder against the door, making the metal hardware groan under the pressure. “See how quickly they arrive to protect you from someone with federal authority.”

The chain lock snaps with a sharp crack that echoes through the hallway like a gunshot. Lang stumbles slightly as the door swings open but recovers quickly and steps inside my house without invitation or legal justification. The crossing of that threshold transforms him from an overly aggressive investigator into someone who’s decided that my rights and safety are less important than getting what he wants.

“This is breaking and entering. You have no right to be in my house.” I’m trying and failing not to tremble.

“I have every right to recover federal evidence from criminal activities.” He slams the door behind him and engages the deadbolt, trapping us both inside while eliminating my most obvious escape route. “Where’s the guest room where Kulikov stayed?”

The change in his demeanor is complete and terrifying. Gone is any pretense of professional courtesy or federal authority. Whatstands in my hallway now is someone who’s abandoned legal procedures in favor of direct action, who’s decided intimidation and force are more efficient than warrants and proper channels.

“You’re not a federal agent.” The realization comes out as barely a whisper, but Lang hears it clearly enough.

“I am, but not always. I’m whatever I need to be to get what I want.” He takes a step closer, and I instinctively back toward the kitchen. “I think Kulikov left something in your house that I need. He would have seen you as a fool and your home as a good hiding place. You’re going to help me find it, or you’re going to regret making this more complicated than necessary.”

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